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arm and twisted it in front of her. She knew the blade had sliced through her skin, but until she saw the dark red stain angling the length of her forearm, she wasn’t sure he’d actually harmed her. She felt no pain, only a slow burning of her flesh.
    Kenneth stepped forward, separating her from her father while the MacAlister grabbed her from behind, pulling her against him. “Enough, MacBride!”
    Struggling in a futile attempt to free herself, she was able to twist just enough to turn her face so she could look at the MacAlister. “Now you know why my father has sent for you. Because he does na have the courage to kill me himself. For the sake of peace and in payment for saving your life, make my death quick and be done with it.”
    The look on the MacAlister’s face revealed nothing.
    “Do it!” she demanded, unable to keep her voice from shaking. Blood dripped from her fingertips to the ground in a steady stream and her knees wanted to tremble beneath her. She didn’t have the strength to battle the Scot and look death bravely in the face much longer. “Grant me a quick death.”
    “You think I came here to kill you?”
    “I think my father wants me dead more than anything, but does na have the courage to kill me himself. Did he promise there would be peace between the MacBrides and the MacAlisters if you would do what he canna?”
    The MacAlister shifted his harsh glare to her father, and for the first time ever, she saw her father flinch uncomfortably under another man’s scrutiny.
    The MacAlister turned his gaze back to her. “He swore there would be peace. You do na think I should trust him to keep his word?” he asked, leveling her with the same encompassing look he’d worn even when he could not see.
    She looked back at her father. “Swear to me before all the MacBrides with you, father. Swear there will be peace.”
    “Damn you,” her father whispered under his breath. He glared at her with open hatred.
    “Swear there will be peace,” she repeated.
    Ewan MacBride turned to the army of men behind him and pronounced loudly. “The MacAlister laird has come at my bidding. Upon fulfillment of the terms of our agreement, I do swear here and now that there will be peace between the MacBrides and the MacAlisters.”
    With poised determination, her father spun around to face her. “Are you satisfied?”
    Màiri searched for any hint of falsehood in his words but could find none. He had spoken the truth. Her death was worth a high price indeed. Peace between the MacBrides and the hated MacAlisters.
    “There will be peace,” she said.
    The MacAlister gave a curt nod then turned to her father. “Bring forth the priest,” the MacAlister ordered.
    “By all that is holy,” she said, “just be done with it.” She could not believe either one of them cared if she went to her grave unshriven.
    “We will as soon as the priest arrives.”
    The thick wooden gate to the abbey opened and a portly man with a balding head and thread-bare robe shuffled through the dirt, holding his tattered bible in his hands. She watched him come toward her, the soft smile on his face the antithesis to the fear tearing at her insides.
    “What is your name, lass?” the priest asked, taking her hand in his.
    “Màiri MacBride.”
    “Are you ready?”
    “Aye,” she answered, trying to keep her voice steady.
    “And you?” the priest asked, turning toward the MacAlister.
    “Iain MacAlister, laird of clan MacAlister.”
    “Are you ready?”
    “Aye,” she heard his deep voice answer.
    The first niggling of confusion stirred within her. Why would the priest care if the MacAlister was ready?
    “Stand before me then in the sight of God.”
    Her fear erupted into full-blown panic. “What was the term of your agreement with my father?” she demanded of the Scot.
    “To wed his daughter.”
    “Nay!”  She staggered back, clutching her throat with her left hand. Her right hung useless at her side, the blood still oozing